FORESTER’S DIARY

H

E was the greatest and

not slow to tell us so.

But for a fighting man to

avoid military service

sent out mixed messages.

He explained his refusal of army

service in Vietnam by saying, “I

don’t have nothing against the Viet

Cong,” a sentiment I found oddly

logical. If only it were possible to

examine our national or cultural

differences on a personal level,

perhaps life could be simpler –

and the future less depressing.

And today I don’t have nothing

against those Iranians, nor

those North Koreans. Yemenis,

Israelis, Saudis, or Americans;

it is hard for me, as it was for

Muhammad Ali, to imagine I

opposed someone else’s religion

or political philosophy enough

to want to shoot them or blow

them up or, nowadays, to poison

them. Everyone,

regardless of beliefs,

is somebody’s child.

All this philosophy

is brought about

by my recall of an

epic Institute tour

to Russia in the

1980s. President

Gorbachev had

initiated a second

Russian revolution

and doors which

had been sealed for

generations were beginning

to open. The party went

to Moscow, then, very

memorably, to Tbilisi

in Georgia and

finally to Leningrad,

now renamed of

course, but in those

days beginning

to welcome

parties of boozy

Scandinavians.

Everywhere

we came into

contact with

forestry or

forest products

we were warmly

welcomed. Foresters,

especially in our hemisphere,

tend to have the same sort of

management problems, from

sustainability to harvesting and

marketing. Other content of the

tour was perhaps a little odd; for

example, it was hard to see the

relevance of a trip to see Josef

Stalin’s birthplace to our party

and the domestic flights in military

Ilyushin jets were a bit parlous,

but at a human, personal even,

level, all was fun, frolics, conifers

and vodka. Not by any measure a

life-changing experience, our trip

to Russia.

Older readers will no doubt

recall how I got into forestry as a

career so I won’t go there again.

But recent events have rung a

distant bell about the course of my

journey through the profession.

When I came back from Africa,

I applied to the FC for a job.

I was duly appointed District

Officer Grade

2 and posted to

the South Wales

Valleys, at that

time considered

the white man’s

grave. I got time

off from the Neath

District for good

behaviour (just

joking, folks.

Between fires

in the woods

we had a good

time), and was

transferred to East Anglia.

It was about this time

that the Commish was

obsessed with Net

Discounted Revenue.

Every decision was

subjected to the

remorseless

logic of

financial

returns, and

that included

growing oak

in some of our

lowland woods. This

was not going to hit the

jackpot, was it? So, the decision

was made – at the highest level –

to spray young, newly established

oakwoods with 2,4,5-T, in diesel

solvent, would you believe, and to

replant the resulting sterile sites

with Corsican pine. Would you

believe that?

The lads in the woods were

horrified. Having devoted their

time and muscle to getting oaks

to head height they were being

equipped with protective suits

and sprayers and instructed to

destroy their hard-won and much-

cherished oaks. It was about this

time that I decided that I was

the world’s worst civil servant

and legged it for the embryonic

private sector. I didn’t want to be

associated with the destruction

of young oak; this undoubtedly

coloured my judgement.

Anyway, I spray my paths and

patios with glyphosate these days,

but I don’t feel happy doing it.

I feel a kind of revulsion about

attacking my weeds with chemical

poisons, so you can imagine how

I feel about Salisbury and all

that. Yesterday I pumped up the

sprayer, set to work, and found

myself visibly shaken by the

arrival of two low-flying Tornado

jet fighters. Was I about to be

bombed? Would my geese be hit

by missiles? Well, no. It was just

the RAF practising, as they used to

in the good old Cold War days.

Now here’s an idea for you.

Why doesn’t the Institute, or the

RFS or Woodland Heritage, seek

now, through the depleted Russian

Embassy, to arrange another

foresters’ tour to Russia? We could

follow this up with a trip to the

beechwoods of the Caspian or to

the bare hills of North Korea.

I ain’t got nothing against

foresters, the world over. In the

words of the song...”All we need is

love, love...”

Tanarus

Let’s go on a

road trip

“I WISH PEOPLE

WOULD LOVE

EVERYBODY ELSE

THE WAY THEY LOVE

ME. IT WOULD BE

A BETTER WORLD.”

MUHAMMED ALI